


Amber

by Llewcie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Based on a painting, Biblical mythology - Freeform, Hannibal is up to shenanigans in every universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 20:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14722995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie
Summary: King Will's world is folding in on itself, and a captive young servant is positioned to soothe him.  These two things are not related.  Totally not.





	Amber

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FauxFidele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FauxFidele/gifts).



> Thank you so much to @shiphitsthefan and @fauxfidele, who betaed this strange little story and encouraged me greatly.
> 
> The story is based on [this painting ](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Julius_Kronberg_David_och_Saul_1885.jpg)by Julius Kronberg.

The plaster on the wall opposite the throne was pockmarked with holes. It had, just yesterday, been a richly ornate fresco of hunters stalking a stag, their spears poised to pierce the hart through the dip between the wings of its shoulder blades. Now, the tan sandstone underneath was exposed where nearly the entire animal had been chipped out of the mural. Only a few prongs of the massive antlers remained, and a single delicate cloven hoof. 

“Bring me my spear, boy.” The king’s voice was damaged, raw with fatigue and what would be identified as fear from any other than royal blood. “It’s stalking me, its prongs afire.” 

His servant dutifully bent and recovered the spear from the shattered painted plaster littering the marble floor, and brought it to the king, uncertain what he was seeing behind his wide, bloodshot eyes, only that it was absolutely, terrifyingly real. 

“My lord,” he murmured, as if for the first time and not the hundredth that day, handing the spear butt to the king, who gripped it with a shaking hand.

“My name is Will,” the king growled. He swung his arms wide, the spear point sweeping an arc that nearly sliced the tip off the serving man’s ear. “The will of the people. The _Will_ of the People!” he shouted to the empty court, his tired voice cracking on his own name. “I am not seeing demons!”

The servant bowed gracefully. “Of course, my lord.”

He waited for the spear to dart right at his heart, then moved aside with an alacrity that saved his life. Will bared his bloody teeth with a feral snarl and leapt off the throne like a pouncing lion, colliding with the young server and bearing them both to the unforgiving stone floor. The young man took their combined weight on his back, barely managing to shield the back of his head from cracking like an egg against the marble floor. He wheezed one breath, and another. 

Will loomed over him, bleeding from his scraped knees and bitten lips. “Say my name; say my _name_!”

“Will.” The young man took another breath. “Your name is Will.”

His bloody saliva dripped onto the servant’s cheek. “What is yours?” he pleaded, his face creased in pain.

The servant lifted his hand, carefully, and placed it against the cheek of the king. “Hannibal, my.. Will.” He stroked over the king’s cheekbone soothingly, and Will’s eyes closed. “My name is Hannibal, and I come from Daugava. I was brought as a slave with your most recent amber shipment, and you appointed me your court servant.”

Will bared his teeth again, slumping to the floor, compressing Hannibal underneath. “Why did I do that, H-Hannibal? I don’t remember.” Hannibal wasn’t sure if he meant shipping the amber or adding Hannibal to the royal court, and he didn’t ask to clarify. The king winced in pain, and then dragged himself upward, still gripping the spear butt. “I can’t remember.” He gazed confusedly around his empty court. Broken pottery was piled in the corners, the rich black dirt of the alluvial fields spattered on the walls and floors, uncovering the bare roots of rare imported plants that had graced the throne room. Hannibal lay on the floor beneath him, gazing up at the king with a soft curiosity. “Where are they all?” Will asked, fearful.

“Taken ill, like you, after the meal last night. You shut them all out; do you remember?”

“No.”

“Will you let me play for you?”

The king sank back to the floor, his legs unable to hold him up. He had been in this fit of madness since the night before, barricading the doors to the court after dinner, and had not rested. Neither had Hannibal, who was the only person to be locked in with him. “I don’t think you are quite human, Hannibal.” He reached out a trembling hand to run a finger over the curve of an antler, Hannibal’s golden head framed perfectly within the shattered hart’s painted horns. 

Hannibal smiled tiredly, tipping his head into Will’s hand. Will gripped his hair, and then let go just as quickly. 

“Play for me, Hannibal,” ordered Will. “I don’t know where I am, and I cannot see the way home.” His royal head tipped back as if in surrender, his throat bare and bruised.

Hannibal rose slowly and walked gracefully to a sheltered corner near the door, where he took up a small lyre from its linen wrapping. He set it on the ground, and then took Will by the hands. “Come, my king, and recline and take your ease.” He helped Will lift his bruised body up onto the sleeping platform, and covered him with a red wool blanket. Will clutched his spear in one hand as he propped up his chin in the other, one leg sliding off the platform to hang down. Hannibal kneeled beneath him and then sat gingerly back, his bones still aching from being slammed to the floor. He settled the lyre in his lap, and plucked the strings to ensure the instrument was in tune. After tightening a few pins, he exhaled, focused, and began to play.

His fingers were sure but gentle on the strings. The small size of the instrument belied the strength of its sound, and the pizzicato snap of the strings woven in between the strummed complex chords soon filled the throne room as with light. Hannibal played with a confidence bourne from long practice, a beautiful music surely foreign to Will’s ears. Will seemed to sink into its complicated mix of melody and harmony, dazed, as though his mind was beginning to unspiral from its strange, exhausted madness. When Hannibal lifted his head to gaze up at the king, Will gazed back in wonder, as if he had never met another’s eyes before. Perhaps he hadn’t, not since he was crowned. Kings did not look at men in the manner Will looked at Hannibal now.

The booming of the battering ram against the door shook them from their reverie. When Will had barricaded the doors, he had used the thick oaken bars across the frames that were meant to keep an invading force out. He shifted restlessly. Hannibal rose aching from the floor, and bowed from the waist. “Shall I let them in, my king?”

Will contemplated a long moment, and then shook his head softly. He shifted over until there was space beside him, and dropped the spear to the floor, where it clattered and rolled over the rug to rest at Hannibal’s bare feet. Will reached out to him, and Hannibal took his hand, propping his lyre on the platform and climbing up beside Will. They settled close to each other, Hannibal’s back against Will’s chest. Will’s lips bowed to press against Hannibal’s shoulder, and when he spoke his voice was felt more than heard. 

“Play a little longer, Hannibal,” he said, sighing. “Just play.”

Hannibal relaxed against him and settled the lyre into his arms. He played a gentle melody until the king fell into slumber behind him, and mused that his carefully smuggled store of salema, the gold-striped fish that made the eater dream while waking, would last much longer that he planned if he only fed it to Will. _Will_. He settled back into his king’s chest with a contented sigh, and fell asleep to the thunder of the battering ram.


End file.
